Save Me (And I Will Save You)
by Myriddin
Summary: Modern AU. Tied together intricately by their past and present, Jon and Sansa are no strangers to complicated. Choices and consequences have shaped their lives, but as their bond holds strong, how far will life's complications go in forging their future?
1. One: Familiar Stranger

**Save Me (And I Will Save You)  
**By Myriddin

**One: Familiar Stranger **

_King's Landing, 2014_

Sansa Stark sat on the living room couch in the apartment she lived in, a cup of tea held tightly in her hands. Outside, a storm raged, full of howling winds and rain pelting against the windows. She pressed her fingers against her temples, letting out a weary sigh. She had barely managed to get her sick four-year-old, Brynden, to sleep a half-hour before. The boy had come down with a bad chest cold, but thank the Seven, he was in the final stages and according to the doctor, would recover fine with plenty of rest.

Pulling the quilt she was wrapped in tighter around her, she allowed her head to fall back against the couch cushion, her eyes closing in the aftermath of a very long day. Outside, the storm continued on. She had to admit, when she was younger thinking about life a few years down the road, single motherhood hadn't been the first expectation on her list. But now, she wouldn't trade her precious baby boy for anything.

A sharp rapping at the front door broke through her reflections, and she reluctantly left the warmth of her couch cocoon. Mumbling under her breath with irritation, she undid the lower lock and eased open the door with the upper chain still in place. Her annoyed expression changed, and she immediately moved to unlatch the door completely.

Hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket, the figure shifted his weight awkwardly from foot to foot as he cautiously looked up to gauge her reaction. His dark curls were plastered to his head, water running in rivulets down his rugged face as he looked at her pleadingly.

Though she tried her best to look reprimanding, something about a twenty-eight-year-old man being able to pull off puppy dog eyes was too much and she sighed, leaning back to let him in. His face filled with relief and he smiled at her, dripping on the floor as he stepped inside.

She motioned for him not to move from his spot, and he watched her disappear down the hallway, shifting to toe off his hiking boots and carefully set them aside. He stretched and let his gaze thoughtfully trail over the room.

His surroundings were more than familiar. He was far from a stranger to this home, but there was something especially inviting about the atmosphere that night that had the tension in him disappearing, easing into a contentment he could rarely muster anywhere else. Perhaps it was that sense of familiarity. Perhaps it was the welcoming warmth enveloping the small apartment. Whatever it was, he found himself too tired to feel guilty about the feelings that welled up inside him. Being here felt like coming home.

A towel tossed at his head alerted him to Sansa's returned presence, as the cloth caught him in the face. He lifted the towel to give her a annoyed look, though he obediently stepped onto the one she tossed at his feet. She smirked at him, shaking her head with fond exasperation.

"Your impersonation of a drowned rat is going to ruin my carpet, Snow."

"If it's that much of a problem, I'll call the cleaners in the morning, Stark," he replied, both honestly and with a trace of sarcasm. He shrugged out the old bomber jacket he was so fond of, one that had belonged to his Uncle Benjen, and placed it to hang on the coat rack.

Shedding the coat revealed his wet henley and jeans clinging as close as a second skin, emphasizing the physique shaped by years of swimming competitively in high school and university. Sansa bit her lip as she thought of the lean, sinewy muscle she knew was under those clothes, and allowed herself only a cursory side-glance before looking away. "If you want, there's some clothes you can change into in my room. Third drawer down in the bureau."

The jealousy he felt at her words startled Jon, both in the suddenness and the intensity of the feeling. He swallowed back the sharp, biting bitterness and managed to say in a casual tone. "I appreciate the offer, but I'm a bit too tall for Willas' things."

She shot him a baffled look. "It's your stuff, not Will's. Have you honestly never noticed how often you leave things behind when you stay over?"

Jon nodded silently, shamefaced as the same envious feelings lingered at the thought of Sansa's ex-boyfriend. He muttered an ascent and shuffled down the hallway to her bedroom, stepping carefully so not to disturb the sleeping child next door. He walked into the room- neat and tidy, done in a color scheme of subtle blues and greens- and smiled softly at being surrounded by something so completely Sansa.

He stripped out of his wet clothes, dropping them into an empty laundry basket nearby. He bent over to pull open the drawer Sansa had directed him to, pausing with surprise at what he found. The drawer was filled to brim- several of his t-shirts, a pair of jeans, a couple sweaters, a random assortment of socks, even the scarf he thought he lost last winter. He grinned when he came across an unopened package of underwear in his size.

_That woman really does think of everything._

As if summoned by his thoughts, there was a brief knock at the door. Jon knew the routine by now; he ripped open the package and donned a pair of black boxer-briefs, opening the door to hand off the basket with his wet clothes to a waiting Sansa. He whispered his thanks, amused and miffed when his words were met with yet another fresh towel to the face. He huffed, thanked her again and shut the door.

He dressed, slipping into a pair of sweats and a faded Night's Watch ROTC long-sleeve from his college days, and returned to the living room, toweling off his hair as he went. He found Sansa occupied on the sofa, hovering over paperwork spread out on the coffee table. He plopped down beside her.

Without taking her eyes off her work, she closed the few inches between them until they were hip-to-hip, her leg pressing against his. Jon draped his arm along the back of the couch, brushing against her shoulders as he moved. She absently acknowledged the touch, reaching up to touch her hand to his, their fingertips grazing in a lingering touch.

Sansa leaned against his side, settling into the circle of his arm. He sighed contently, closing his eyes and relaxing back against the cushions. He cracked one eye open to regard her, and with a light smirk, he shifted to fold his legs beneath him, sliding his ankles under the blanket she was using.

She yelped and jumped with surprise as his bare feet curled around her calves, cold as ice. She pulled the quilt up to reveal the source of her discomfort and she glared. "Ever hear of socks?" she hissed at him, slapping his arm when he only grinned at her.

"But you're just so warm," he countered cheekishly, catching her arm as she tried to smack him again and gently tugged her into his lap. He wrapped his arms around her, propping his knees up to playfully trap her in an encasement of limbs.

She huffed with annoyance, glowering at him but she did not protest his hold. He gave her a downtrodden look, complete with a pouting frown and imploring eyes. Sansa was not impressed.

"Now I know where Bryn gets it. I thought maybe it was Robb that taught him that look, but no, it was all you." She poked him in the chest pointedly. "Freeloaders like you are a bad influence."

"C'mon, Freckles," he lightly teased, "Bryn loves me."

That was an understatement. Brynden practically worshiped the ground Jon walked on. The thought of that, combined with his familiar endearment, was enough to dispel her ire. And redirect her attention as she picked up on the undertone to his last words. "You're right," she said softly, "He does. There are some days where you're all he talks about."

There was a look of wistful, longing hope in his eyes that had her heart aching, hesitating as she contemplated the lines between what she could do…and what she longed to do. To kiss him…to really embrace him…it was just hopeless fantasy, she knew, as she settled for taking his hand, the larger palm enveloping hers warm and calloused. "Really?" he asked her tentatively, his voice just barely above a whisper.

"Really. Trust me. He adores you, Jon."

He smiled softly, pressing his lips to her temple as he leaned his head against hers, "By the way…"

"Hmm?"

"It's not freeloading if you open your door to me each time."

She twisted around to face him, arching an eyebrow. "Still freeloading," she said airily, mimicking his earlier singsong tone as she teased him.

Jon narrowed his eyes. "I might have to take offense to that, and take revenge."

"You wouldn't dare, Snow."

"Wouldn't I?"

Sansa squealed with surprise as he suddenly whirled her around, digging his fingers into her ribs as he tickled her. His body leaned over her, his face animated with boyish glee as she collapsed in helpless laughter, begging him to stop with bated breath between giggles.

Jon didn't let up, pressing her back against the couch as he continued. She writhed and squirmed beneath him. She dragged her nails down his neck, tugged at his hair, threatening him between bouts of laughter, but still he did not let her go.

Slender legs locked around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back as she used her new hold on him as leverage, arching up against him in an attempt to throw him off. He barely budged, but he did pause, a strangled sound escaping his throat, his hands dropping to either side of them. As he adjusted to the new position, his body pressed intimately close to hers. They stared each other, smiles gone, the room quiet but for the sound of their ragged breathing.

"You play dirty," he muttered, the husky whisper carrying through the quiet room despite the softness of his tone, the intensity underlying the simple statement unmistakable.

She swallowed hard, his proximity intoxicating as he rested his head against the crook of her neck, breathing hard, his lips just barely brushing against her clavicle with every exhalation. Feeling foolishly brave, she ran her hands down his back, feeling the heat radiating off of him beneath the material of his shirt, the muscles quivering with tension beneath her touch.

They couldn't…they couldn't…they _couldn't_…but temptation was at its highest pinnacle, and it was so damn hard to resist. In the end, though, there was something worth fighting for. Both their honor.

She linked her arms around his neck, tangling her fingers through his hair as she pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, smoothing her cheek against his, feeling the light scratch of five o'clock shadow against her skin. She spoke quietly in his ear, a simple whisper of his name, "Jon."

Jon let out a heavy sigh and then relaxed against her, embracing her as he shifted his position. He turned over onto his back and Sansa settled against him, pressing her head to his chest. She listened to his heartbeat for a few moments before she chose to speak. "Jon, what happened with Margaery?"

He tensed, but her reassuring caress of his arm had him slowly relaxing again. He blew out a long, frustrated breath. "We fought. "

She rested her hand over his and when Jon entwined their fingers, she found herself uncomfortably aware of cold metal of his wedding ring. "What about?"

"About the only thing we have to even talk about anymore. Daeron."

Sansa froze, a sense of unease building at the mention of his son. She raised her head to look down at him, taking in the way his frown deepened the premature stress lines around his mouth and eyes, and sighed. Twenty years she had known this man, and those lines hadn't been there five years ago when he first got that ring on his finger.

"I'm listening."


	2. Two: Come-Hither and Retreat

**Save Me (And I Will Save You)  
**By Myriddin

**Two: Come-Hither and Retreat**_  
_  
_When the tears started to fall, they fell like rain, and it felt almost impossible to stop. Perhaps then, she would have welcomed the rain, for the late summer shower would have obscured the tears she cried and hid her weakness from the world. But instead, the summer celebrated its closing with shorter night and light, dry breezes. The autumn was close in coming, and with it, she would begin leaving her childhood behind, but her naivete shattered far too early one supposed to care for her chose instead to bruise her tender heart. _

_Calloused fingers wiped away her tears and strong arms wrapped around her, sheltering her as he whispered reassurances into her ear to not be ashamed of releasing the pain of her first broken heart. He was warm, strong and always there, solid as stone and gentle as the touch of a feather. _

_He held her close and protected her from the world just a little bit longer. _

_For that, she would always love him. _

- excerpt from _The Lady Wolf_ (2010) by Jon Snow

_Winterfell, 2003_

Tears blurred her eyes, already swollen and sore from crying, as she hurried up the footpath leading to her family home. She rustled through her purse for her house-keys with trembling fingers, stumbling up the stairs but managing to keep her balance until she tripped over something long and solid lying on the porch.

Relief filled her when strong hands caught her just before she hit the porch. She balanced herself by shifting onto her knees and raised her head to thank her rescuer, only to stop in surprise as she met a familiar pair of gray eyes. "Jon? What are you doing here?"

Jon smiled at her sheepishly. "Waiting for Robb. He told me he'd be back soon, but that was an hour ago. I think I've been forgotten."

Despite herself, Sansa weakly giggled at his put-out expression. "Was he with Jeyne? He does that all the time when they're together."

"That explains it." He sat himself down from where he had been crouching, stretching out his long legs. His hand brushed over a worn paperback resting beside him, and Sansa realized he must have been sitting there and reading, patiently waiting for her brother, when she tripped over him. She was about to apologize when Jon's gaze on her seemed to sharpen and he leaned closer. "Sansa, have you been crying?"

"No, I just-"

"Sansa," he said firmly, brooking no argument as she sighed with defeat. All it took was his genuine, blatant concern and her defenses fell, her face crumbling. Jon wordlessly opened his arms and Sansa fell into them, clinging to him as he gathered her into a comforting embrace. She buried her face in the crook of her neck, as he rubbed soothing circles on her back. "Sansa, what happened, sweetheart?"

The endearment drew from her a weak smile as she burrowed closer. "Harry," she admitted softly, her voice so quiet Jon had to strain to make it out.

Jon immediately scowled at the mention of Harry Hardyng. Robb's distain for his sister's arse of a boyfriend was well-known, and Jon wholeheartedly shared the ill-feeling. "What did he say?"

A bitter, humorless laugh escaped her, an ugly sound that had him tightening his arms around her. "It's not what he said, it's what he did. He slept with someone else. Oh gods, Jon. He cheated on me. He said he'd wait for me, and then he cheated on me."

"Oh, Sansa." As she trembled, he thought her cold, but another shudder followed, one after the other until her entire body was shaking with silent sobs, and her tears were soaking the fabric of his shirt.

Shocked to see her cry in such a way; he hesitated for just a moment before he began to rock her gently back and forth, as he whispered reassuringly into her ear, sounds and words that soon jumbled to make little sense. But she cared little for sensible things right then and there, and his voice was soothing, an anchor among the sea of pent-up pain.

She slowly calmed, and the tremors running through her body quieted as she drew back to meet his worried gaze. He took her in as well, her pale face, her red-rimmed eyes, and his jaw clenched with anger. How someone could be so callous and disregarding of a girl as incredible as Sansa?

His disgust was evident in his expression, and when his fist clenched with the entertaining of ramming his knuckles into Hardyng's smug face, Sansa laid her hand over his and coaxed his fingers to uncurl and relax. She winced sympathetically as she saw the bright red indents his nails had left in his palms. She was embarrassed as her eyes began to well up once again.

He looked back at her, and his anger instantly faded, replaced by a worried expression she thought looked incredibly adorable on his brooding face. "Sansa?"

She shook her head, sniffling as she wiped at the stray tears. "I'm alright. They're not sad tears, I swear. It's just...thank you."

"You don't have to thank me, Sansa." He frowned uncertainly. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," she assured him, tilting her head up to press a kiss to his cheek, nuzzling against the light stubble of his chin. She breathed in the scent of him, a warm, masculine spice entirely Jon. He smiled down at him and that smile was so kind, so gentle toward her. He was so sweet…

Sansa bit her lip uncertainly for a moment, then moved her head to hesitantly press her lips to his. Jon immediately tensed at the contact, and after a long, drawn-out moment, as he failed to respond, her heart sank. She readied to pull away when he came to life against her, the firm line to his mouth softening and growing warmly respondent.

Sansa gave a soft sigh of satisfaction, twining her arms around his neck as he cupped the back of her head. He stroked the nape of her neck, tongue skimming the seam of her lips in a plea for entrance.

She opened to him and Jon Snow knew he had never tasted anything so perfectly sweet.

Jon teasingly caught her bottom lip between his teeth and Sansa moaned in reply, pressing herself all the more closer against him. Her husky, voiced satisfaction pulled at Jon's libido and he growled. The sound thrilled her, and she moved to straddle him, fingers tangling through his curls.

"Sansa!"

The pair broke apart so suddenly, Sansa was sent hurtling backward as she drew away from him. She dug her hands into Jon's thighs to catch her balance, consequently changing her momentum as she came crashing into him. Pressed flush against him, his hands clenched at her waist, Sansa's eyes widening as she felt the evidence of his groin, half-erect, pressing against her thigh.

Their eyes met and she fiercely blushed, hastily scrambling off her lap. Jon opened his mouth to speak, only to be cut off as Sansa's younger brother, Bran, appeared in the doorway leading into the house, staring at them quizzically. "Sansa, didn't you hear me calling? Mom said to tell you that dinner's ready. Oh, and Jon…Robb called and said he's eating at Jeyne's house."

"Thank you, Bran," Sansa murmured as she struggled to her feet, Jon rising to his a little more gracefully. She avoided eye-contact, edging away from him, a gesture that earned a bewildered look from her brother. "Sansa? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Casting Jon a furtive glance, she pushed past them both and rushing into the house.

Jon's eyes followed her until she disappeared from sight, his attention only diverted as Bran nudged him in the arm. "She's acting weird, Jon."

Jon shrugged, casting one last look in the direction Sansa had gone, guilt blanketing his expression. "Girls are like that, kiddo." He sighed, tucking his book into his back-pocket and feeling around in one of the front ones for his keys. "Tell you what. I'm taking Arya up for a ride in the mountains this weekend. Maybe you can join us if it's alright with your mom."

"Maybe," Bran muttered dubiously. His mother wasn't particularly fond of Jon. Robb had commented once on it having something to do with Catelyn not liking their father, Brandon's, history with Jon's mother, but it made little sense to ten-year-old Bran. He liked Jon and liked spending time with him. He was jealous Arya got to see him so much, a given since they shared the same house.

Jon ruffled his hair fondly. "See you soon, monkey." Bran rolled his eyes at the nickname referencing his love of climbing, but his eyes lit up at Jon's words. "Be good, and maybe I'll put in a good word with Commander Mormont about getting you some time with the climbing wall the JROTC uses for training. Just between us, though."

"Just between us." Bran watched his honorary big brother's retreating back until he climbed into his truck and drove away. The boy shook his head confusedly and turned back to the house.

"Teenagers are so weird."

xx

"Hey."

Sprawled out on his bed, Jon looked up from his book at the sound of the familiar voice, spotting an awkwardly smiling Sansa standing in his doorway. He raised himself into a sitting position, setting down his novel as he motioned her into his bedroom. "Hey yourself."

"Arya let me in," she explained softly, tentatively meeting his eyes, biting her lip in a nervous gesture. Her cousin hadn't been happy to see her either. The preteen had glared at her fiercely when she opened the door, demanded she fixed whatever she'd done to Jon, and pushed past Sansa to take off on her bike.

Jon simply nodded, "Okay."

He watched her thoughtfully as she slowly wandered around the familiar room, perpetually neat and well-kept as always, an aspect of his personality she found rather fitting. A large bookcase took up most of the wall opposite of his bed, and she let her fingers trace over the cover bindings, musing over the familiar titles. "What are you reading?"

He held up the novel for her perusal. "Ah," she cocked her head in his direction, smiling softly, "More history on the ancient North? Did you find another one about your snow monsters?" She'd noticed him reading the books before when she came over to spend time with her aunt and uncle, and heard Robb tease him often of his interest in the far-off past.

"White Walkers," he corrected automatically.

"Snarks and grumkins," she teased, tentatively seating herself on the end of his bed.

Jon rolled his eyes, though he quickly grew serious. "Does this mean you've stopped avoiding me?"

"I'm not avoiding you." Even to her own ears, her words sounded less than convincing. Jon's dubious expression told her he echoed her feeling. "Jon..."

"I'm sorry!" he blurted out, startling them both, and Jon recovered enough to look at her with guilty eyes. "I'm sorry, Sansa. That's what I've been trying to say for the last week."

Sansa's brow furrowed with confusion. "What?"

"I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have kissed you. I shouldn't have taken it so far. It was inappropriate. I didn't mean to scare you. Please believe me." His loss of control that afternoon had been haunting him for days. Gods help him, he had practically mauled her, even gotten aroused enough for her to feel it. She was too young, fourteen to his seventeen, and far out of his league. What in the seven hells had he been thinking?

"Jon..." Sansa trailed off once more, unsure which of the dozen things she wanted to say should be stated. That he hadn't scared her, that he had felt wonderful. His kiss and touch had felt amazing, left her longing, and the only thing that scared her was how much she wanted him to kiss her again.

It was a strange thing to want and feel. She had known Jon most of her life. She had even met him before Robb and been responsible for introducing the two best friends, but they hadn't been particularly close since she was little. They were even family of sorts, her Uncle Ned having taken Jon in after his mother died and his uncle Benjen had been deployed overseas.

Things had changed a few months ago, the first time she saw Jon in his Night's Watch JROTC dress uniform. She had never before thought of quiet, brooding Jon in any way but platonically before, but he struck such an impressive, handsome figure that day she'd ended up nursing a shallow little crush on him since. The infatuation up until the day he held her as she cried had been superficial, but her feelings had only evolved since the day he'd shown her such tender care.

She couldn't seem to make herself say any of this. Instead, she hesitated, licking her lips before continuing. "You didn't scare me, Jon. I kissed you first."

His relief was nearly palpable and she realized just how much he had feared having done something to make her feel uncomfortable with him. "It still shouldn't have happened," he reiterated.

"You didn't want to?"

Her voice was soft, full of vulnerability and Jon sighed, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to her forehead, "That's not the point. You just broke up with your boyfriend. Your first serious one. Jumping into things with me would just hurt you more."

She was still frowning and he was quick to reassure, cupping her face and tilting her chin up to meet his eyes. "Of course I wanted to kiss you, sweetheart. You're wonderful. You're perfect. Hardyng didn't deserve you. But don't you think I'm a little old for you?"

"You make it sound like you're ancient."

"I just might be. You never know, I just might be an ancient Northern warrior reborn." Sansa rolled her eyes and giggled as he dared to be playful, pressing a light kiss to her nose. She wrinkled it at his touch. "So what do you say? Are we still friends?"

As much as Sansa wanted to say no, that she wanted to pursue this strange, exciting new thing between them, fear (not of Jon, of course, but of the unknown) clogged her throat, and she nodded with reluctant acquiescence. "Friends."

xx

_King's Landing, 2014_

"So what about Daeron?"

His lips pursed as he looked away, his eyes distant in a way that prophesied his disconcertion. "His birthday's coming up and Aegon wants to take him out for the day. Something about uncle-nephew bonding. Bullshit if I ever heard it."

Jon's tone grew mocking and slightly embittered, taking on a flat quality that had her fighting to discern how to comfort him, "He's only got the gall to ask for something like that because the Lannisters are coming into town that weekend, so Myrcella's attention will be elsewhere. No reason for her to suspect her husband's sudden interest in his bastard brother's son."

The bitterness in his voice was sharp and poignant, reflected in the way gray eyes hardened with cold anger, jaw clenching with five years of suppressed temper and hurt.

"Jon…Jon, look at me." She touched a hand to his cheek, gently grasping his chin to turn his face toward her.

"He's my son. _My_ son, Sansa. Why can't he let it be?"

"Jon…" his name seemed to be the only sound she could muster in response to an argument and resentment beaten into the ground by five years of the man before her playing pretend, wondering and waiting for his delicately crafted world to fall apart all over again. She sifted her fingers through his hair, letting her hand gently run across his nape, stroking the tension away from the column of his neck. He sighed, letting his head roll back against the couch cushion, fixing her with tired, world-weary eyes.

"…what does Margaery say…?"

"She's not fighting it. He's my blood, Sansa, I know that, but gods, the whole thing just turns my stomach. Every time I look in Myrcella's eyes, trusting me with the world…" he trailed off, his eyes closing as a strangled sound escaped him, half sob, half moan, and Sansa embraced him all that much tighter, Jon burying his face in her hair. She cradled his head, reveling in the strange paradox that even as his arms held her close, nestling her against his chest, it was her comforting him, stroking his hair as he let out a few more of those desperate, choked sounds; being the man he was, still not daring to cry.

Sansa rubbed his back, kissed his temple and held him tight as humanly possible, unable to say a thing, for it had all been said dozens of times before. Five years wasn't nearly enough to erase the damage done, by the affair that had completely rocked their collective worlds.

"She's not even going to be in town."

"Margaery? Why?"

"She's flying to Highgarden…something to do with Tyrell Designs."

Sansa winced at the mention of her previous employer, her hands moving downward to gently massage his shoulders. Jon shifted beneath her fingers to give her better access, tense muscles slowly relaxing under her touch. She sighed as she slowly worked out the kinks and knots stress had inflicted on him, pressing a light kiss to the side of his neck. "I'm sorry, Jon. I wish there was something I could say, or do…but…"

He shook his head, opening his eyes to gaze up at her, favoring her with a small smile. "You don't have to be sorry, Sansa. You're my safe haven, you know that? That's more than any man could ever ask for."

He brushed back her hair, leaning in to gently press his lips to hers, soft and sweet, pulling back as quickly as he'd initiated the moment he realized his blunder. They stared at each other for a moment, neither certain what to say, and Sansa shook her head as he opened his mouth to speak.

She kissed him once more, her mouth lingering against his as she felt him respond, his lips moving beneath hers as she twined her fingers through his hair, leaning further into him even as he sat up to draw her closer. His hands glided up her back, leaving pleasured shivers in the wake of his touch, cradling the back of her head as he took gentle, coaxing control of the kiss.

Eliciting a soft moan from her as he caught her bottom lip between his teeth, he gently tilted her head, intent on deepening the contact when she slowly pulled back, breaking their lip lock, her eyes dark and guilty as they met his. "We really shouldn't have done that," she told him, her voice just barely carrying above a whisper.

"You're right. I'm sorry. That was selfish."

Sansa sighed. "Jon..."

"I know. Self-martyring again, right?"

"You're learning."


	3. Three: Fragile Loyalties

**Save Me (And I Will Save You)  
**By Myriddin

**Chapter Three: Fragile Loyalties**

_King's Landing, (late) 2008_

"I don't care how much he wants me there, I already said no!"

The irritated shout echoed through the small studio apartment, causing the man it was directed toward to almost shrink back at the ferocity of the scowl the outburst of temper was reflected in.

Jon Connington regarded the young man before him with sour resignation. He had never been fond of his best friend and employer's younger son, seeing him instead to be a gauche antithesis to everything he admired so greatly in Rhaegar. Jon Snow had neither Rhaegar's look nor his charisma...perhaps his intellect, but the boy was wasteful of his gifted mind. A handsome lad, yes, but that dour Northern coloring carried none of Rhaegar's silver beauty.

Even his name, once a point a pride for the elder Jon when Rhaegar mentioned the infant being named in his honor, had soured when he found out Rhaegar's mistress hadn't actually allowed Rhaegar any say in the child's naming. The child was instead the namesake of Lyanna's deceased father. Add in the fact that the brat was blatantly resentful of the father he should have felt nothing but gratitude toward, and his disapproval of the boy ran deep.

Connington sighed, rubbing irritably at his beard, tiredly familiar with the boy's habit of declining family dinner invitations. "Will you be declining to attend your brother's birthday event as well?"

"I have plenty of choice words you can convey to Aegon, but sure, let's go with that."

"Thank you for the consideration," Connington replied dryly. He ignored Snow rolling his eyes and continued on. "I do have a message from Miss Myrcella. She's foreseen your rejected, and sends her greetings. She and young Visenya miss your presence at the house."

The mention of his sister-in-law and two-year-old niece always managed to break through the stubborn defenses surrounding Snow, and Connington knew it. Snow's eyes softened and he sighed. He tossed aside the textbook that had been resting in his lap and got to his feet. "Would you wait a second?"

"Of course." Connington couldn't help adding an edge of sarcasm to his words. "As Master Snow requests."

"Don't call me that," Snow retorted sharply, crossing the small space to open the only visible closet in the tiny flat. "Rhaegar's the master. Aegon's the heir. I'm just the bastard."

Connington didn't voice any disagreement, his expression full of condescension Jon was rankled to see. He shoved a package in Connington's arms, its newspaper wrapping gaining a sneer from the older man that had Jon wishing he could ram his fist into the prig's smug face. "Give this to Cella, tell her it's for Vi. Now get the hell out."

"As you wish, Master Snow."

"I told you not to call me that!"

The shout fell on deaf ears, as the door clicked shut behind Connington, leaving Jon alone with the silence and his own frustration. He growled low in his throat, snatching the textbook from the couch and slamming it into the wall. He collapsed into a chair and dropped his head into his hands.

He knew it was a mistake to come back to King's Landing. He'd always known that, but he hadn't had a choice in the matter and he hated Rhaegar for that. Maybe Winterfell felt emptier since Sansa had left to attend school in the Vale, but it was still his home, and right now, home was far away.

The dull thud against the wall was audible in the hallway and Connington shook his head exasperatingly. He fumbled through his pockets intent on finding his cell phone, already dreading telling Rhaegar his son's reaction to the invitation.

Preoccupied as he was, he did not look up until it was too late, colliding with a slight form coming from the opposite direction. Connington blinked several times as he picked up an expensive-looking bag and handed it to the woman, apologizing profusely for his blunder.

"It's alright, really, Mr. Connington."

Blinking with surprise at the sound of his name, Connington focused and caught his first real glimpse of the woman, her vaguely familiar features clicking into place in his mind. Margaery Tyrell was a beautiful young woman, immaculately put together, and possessing a refined air befitting her social status. He had seen her on Snow's arm at numerous events, and just like each of those times, Connington had no idea what a woman like Miss Tyrell could possibly see in Jon Snow.

"Hello, Miss Tyrell. I should warn you, young Master Snow's being a bit temperamental. He's likely in a poor mood to entertain."

"Ah." She smiled, falsely and politely, her eyes locked on the door to Snow's apartment. Her manner was as dismissive as societal expectation would allow. "I'm sure I can think of a way to better his mood."

"Of course," was Connington's noncommittal reply, respectfully inclining his head before continuing his trudge down the corridor.

It turned out, much to Margaery's surprise (and displeasure), Master Snow was not at thrilled to see her.

"Margaery," he greeted gruffly, clearly irritated at the interruption and regretting not locking the door after Connington left. "What are you doing here? I thought you were in Dorne."

Inwardly annoyed at his lack of enthusiasm to her arrival, Margaery put on her best smile, setting her purse aside to perch on the arm of his chair. Jon's eyes narrowed at the hand she laid against his arm.

Her smile turned lascivious. "I was, but...Dornish boys lost their exotic appeal too quickly. I found myself craving the company of someone...a little _closer_ to home." She trailed her fingers down his chest, watching him through hooded, come-hither eyes that once upon a time, drew his attention and his arousal, but now, only served to heighten his irritation.

He batted her hand away. "I'm sorry you got bored so easily, but I told you a month ago, I'm not up for this anymore. Go find some other toy."

Women like Margaery Tyrell were dangerous, and not for the first time, Jon cursed himself for ever getting involved with her. She was a rare breed among Westerosi blue-bloods, neither air-headed or helplessly spoiled. She was clever, cunning though she tried to hide it beneath a superficial veneer, but Jon could see through to the ambition underneath. For all he knew, the real Margaery could be warm and kind, playful or serious, but he had no idea. She would never let him know.

He had been introduced to Margaery after befriending her brother Willas at university. After asking her to accompany him to a charity dinner and watching her effortlessly charm the room, she had been his plus one to several events his father had forced him to attend. Eventually, he'd allowed himself to be seduced, ending those evenings in an emotionless physicality that seemed to suit them both.

Guilt over such an arrangement, going against everything his aunt and uncle had taught him about love and sexuality, eventually caught up to him and he ended things. He had no idea why Margaery was showing a renewed interest now, and he didn't have the energy or the patience to find out.

The brevity of his dismissal did not settle well with Margaery, and the yelling match that followed left Jon with more of a headache than before. Hearing his door slam hard enough to shake the walls, he nursed his pounding head in the palm of his hand, wearily eying the literature textbook still lying on the floor. He was only twenty-two, wasn't he? He felt so much older.

He never should have come back to King's Landing.

xx

Aegon Targaryen had always been a well-settled man, confident in his dealings and the path set out before him, in business and family alike. He was Rhaegar Targaryen's heir, the dutiful true-born son, magnanimous in the business world and well-respected as the eventual successor to Targaryen International.

Everything had been set up perfectly. His life was soundly structured, adhering completely to his father and grandfather's expectations. He did as he was told and expected to excel as a result, but life seemed to have a funny aversion to holding itself in perfect order.

Jon. That was the name of the irritating little roadblock threatening his position and everything he'd worked so hard for. Years before, when he learned of the bastard spawn's existence, he hadn't been bothered, only indignant on his mother's part as he watched the resulting mess it caused their marriage.

When the younger boy came to live at Dragonstone, from two to eight, he spent those six years brushing the other child off as the very pest he was. It wasn't that hard to do. He and Rhaenys had already fostered a practiced indifference regarding one another at that age. When Rhaegar finally gave up and sent Jon to Winterfell in order to live with his mother's family, Aegon barely batted an eyelash.

No, none of those preceding events unsettled him, not even when Rhaegar called the bastard back south with some blackmail concerning his college tuition. He should have noticed then, his father's sudden heightened interest in his younger son. Aegon should have smelled the foul in the air, but instead foolishly kept his attention elsewhere.

But this…this was breaking the last straw on the camel's back. Rhaegar had been planning for a very long time, well-aware of Jon's disdain for his paternal relations. He had slowly, so very slowly, wormed in his way back into Jon's life, forcing summer visits, event appearances, coming to King's Landing to finish school under the threat of his tuition being cut off. Jon, stubborn fool that he was, wasn't noticing the subtle changes as the years passed.

Rhaegar was slowly, deftly, grooming the bastard into the family fold. This was ever more blatant by the announcement Rhaegar gave his eldest son the day before- that Jon was to be granted a generous inheritance, including both a hefty trust fund and shares in the Targaryens' global import and export empire.

The cool, detached composure Aegon was known for suffered its first major crack that afternoon, and that crack was only growing the more time he had to seethe.

"Well, well…Aegon Targaryen, this isn't exactly the kind of place I'd expect you to frequent."

Aegon looked up through bleary eyes, their indigo darkened and distant with the effects of the alcohol in his system, to take in the features of a woman standing before him. Margaery Tyrell responded to his searching gaze with a coy smile, sliding onto the stool beside him. He shrugged finally, averting his attention back to the drink nursed in his hands, idly swirling the amber liquid in the shot glass.

She was right, he supposed; the hotel the bar was located in was not at low-class, but not exactly the ritzy status Aegon made a habit of showing his face at. "Appearances can always be deceiving, Miss Tyrell."

She smiled again as she gave her drink order to the bartender. "I suppose you're right. I don't mind this kind of atmosphere myself. Comfortable…but…" and she let her gaze roam over him, discretion non-existent in the clear appreciation of her gaze, "Wonderfully secluded. A place to keep your head down, yes?"

"If it's seduction you're trying for, I believe you have the wrong brother."

She made a face at the mention of the bastard, chasing the expression with a hearty swallow of her drink, "Spare me, Aegon. Jon's proved himself more boy that man. While you," and her voice dropped to a near-purr, crossing her legs under a short-hemmed skirt, "You are more man than most women could handle."

His eyes darkened. He turned to face her, cocking an eyebrow with interest. "I take it you're not most women?"

"Exactly. Though I must say it is a pity, a fine specimen of your kind, tied down to your sweet-faced virgin back home…" Her eyes dropped to his wedding ring, amusement coloring her tone.

"Not a virgin anymore. Trust me."

"Perhaps not since the wedding night, but before, I have little doubt." She cocked her head, sliding a hand against the V-shape formed at his collar, idly tracing a nail down the exposed skin. Aegon growled under his breath.

"And I hear she's pregnant again. Congratulations. Another girl, do you think?"

Aegon's mind raced for a moment, remembering the ultrasound film in his wallet, denoting the disappointing sex of his second child, another girl instead of the heir he wanted. The weight of the ring on his finger seemed to disappear.

He felt the metallic texture of the key Margaery slid into his hand and he drained his glass, murmuring to the bartender for the check.


	4. Four: Wintry Kisses

**Save Me (And I Will Save You)  
**By Myriddin  
**Chapter Four: Wintry Kisses**

_King's Landing, 2008_

"On a scale of one to ten, how much do you miss me?"

Jon grinned at the voice greeting him on the other end of the line. He hummed softly under his breath, his voice underlain with mock indecision. "I dunno, Freckles. Somewhere in the negatives, I think."

"Jon!" she exclaimed indignantly. His smile grew into a full-blown grin at the sound, and he wasn't able to hold back a chuckle. "You jerk," she huffed.

"Brat."

She giggled. "Are you just going to keep arguing, or do you want to know how much I miss you?"

Jon's mirth immediately melted away. "You miss me?" he asked incredulously, unable to stop his voice from cracking at the last word.

"Of course." There was a pause, and then her voice returned laced with genuine confusion, "Did you think I wouldn't?"

He hesitated. "I...I wasn't sure, with everything that happened with us last time..." he trailed off, not eager to relive the details by voicing them.

She sighed softly, responding with a tender reassurance. "Jon. We both know we need to talk. I love you too much to let this keep going."

Jon smiled. "I know that, I do. I'm just feel...I don't know, insecure or something."

"You really shouldn't," she lightly chided, "Not with us."

"Not with us," he confirmed, "And for the record, I love you too."

"Always picking the right moment to all soft and sweet, Snow."

"Only for you. I do have a reputation to upkeep."

He looked up at the sharp rapping that came at the door to the cramped office he was sitting in. Recognizing the figures on the other side of the glass, Jon waved them. Following instructions, Samwell Tarly, Grenn Stanley, and Pypar Altin piled into the tiny room.

Jon sighed regretfully. "I hate to cut this short, Freckles, but the guys are here. We're supposed to have dinner."

"Alright, if you have to. Talk to you soon?"

"Definitely. I'll be seeing you soon, remember?"

"How could I forget? Trust me, I've been looking forward to that for months." Her words near the end were spoken quietly, shy and soft with affection. Jon smiled, and though he never would admit such an unmanly thing aloud, in that instant, his heart warmed and surely melted at the endearment of her feelings.

"Me too…" He closed his eyes, envisioning her in his mind, and ached to have her there. But he would, soon. He just had to have patience. Patience was something he had been lacking for the past year of their estrangement, but with the promise of Sansa coming back into his life, it was a virtue he could quickly put into practice again.

They shared goodbyes and another promise that they would talk soon. As Jon clicked off his cellphone and turned his head, he found his friends staring at him, Sam looking confused, Grenn and Pyp grinning. Pyp arched his eyebrows suggestively and nudged the stocky man beside him. "Someone's been holding out on us, Grenn."

Grenn's sly smile cut strangely through his thick facial hair. "Aye, I think you're right."

Pyp nodded with false solemnity, making a show out of tapping a finger against his chin in thought. "It would take a special something to make our serious Lord Snow smile like that."

"Or someone."

Jon kept his face decisively neutral, making a show of solely focusing on pulling on his winter gear. Sam glanced bemusedly the three of them, awkwardly clearing his throat. "Right...um...was that Sansa you were talking to, Jon?"

There was a prolonged moment of heavy silence in the room as they all processed the words. With his back to his friends, Jon sighed, returning to tying the scarf around his neck even as he felt the realization set in for Grenn and Pyp.

Grenn scratched at his beard, tilting his head toward Jon thoughtfully. "That's the girl you told us about, right? The night we finally managed to get you plastered."

Jon winced with embarrassment, at his vague memories of that night. He had landed a much coveted position as the TA to Professor Jeor Mormont, and the others had insisted they celebrate. Jon had been on cloud nine, and therefore too distracted to keep himself in check with the crowd plying him with drinks. According to Sam, he ended up spilling most of the sordid details about his history with Sansa when the four of them returned to Jon's apartment later.

Still not meeting anyone's eyes as he grabbed his keys and began hustling the other men out of the office, he only offered a simple nod in reply.

"That's all you're going to say?" Pyp teased as Jon shut off the light and locked up the room, "The object of all your angst and longing, all the hemming and hawing, calls you, and all you can do is nod and sigh?"

Jon rolled his eyes. "You're being a little overdramatic, don't you think?"

Grenn snorted. "You didn't hear yourself that night, Snow."

Jon's cheeks burned.

"Pack it in, guys," Sam chided, "Let's just go grab something to eat. I'm sure we've all had long days."

Successfully distracted, Pyp agreed with an exaggeratedly pained moan. "Tell me about it. I've been running lines all day with my co-lead's understudy's understudy. This thing's a disaster waiting to happen."

The others made vague sounds of sympathy as they walked out into the brisk air of the late winter afternoon. "So your spring play's been decided?" Jon asked.

"_Wroth of the Dragonlords. _The producer has a thing for Phario Forel."

Jon noticed the discomforted face Sam made at the mention of the play. "First years still not showing any enthusiasm for the Rhonyar, Sam?"

"No," Sam replied morosely. Jon could empathize. As a teaching assistant, it wasn't as though he dreaded first-year classes, it was more a matter of struggling to create any interest in students only taking the class as a requirement or something to fill in their elective credits.

Jon patted his shoulder sympathetically. "There's a reason why the professors get to teach the upper levels, and they leave the others to us poor grad students."

"Hear, hear," Grenn grunted. Jon smirked at that, knowing the older man was thinking of the constant repairs he made to the machines whose maintenance was Grenn's responsibility, perpetuated by amateur engineering students.

Sam had been the first of the trio Jon befriended after moving to King's Landing to do his graduate studies. They were part of the same program, focused on ancient Westerosi history, and though they had gotten along working together as teaching assistants, it was after Jon had learned of Sam's background that they truly began to bond. Or, it may be more accurate to say, it was only then that Jon allowed himself to open up to his new friend. They were both outcasts of the blue blood elite, Jon illegitimate, Sam disinherited, and it was only right that the friends they attracted after were misfits as well.

Sam had helped the drama department with accurate costuming for a historical play they had done, and it was through that project that he met Pyp, an eccentric but talented mummer who had been practically raised in theatre.

The old building where the history offices were located at a year ago, before they had finally been moved, had faulty heating, and constantly staying late working had led to Jon making daily conversation with the maintenance man, Grenn. Grenn was a few years their senior, a hardworking blue-collar man with a talent for machinery that had earned him scholarship money to take engineering classes at the university he worked for.

Everyone was introduced to everyone else, and the rest was history. Jon treasured the camaraderie, enjoyed the other men's good humors and natures, appreciated the comfort and advice of confidantes when life began stressful. Especially for subjects like Sansa, one he hadn't acknowledged he needed to talk about until that night he drunkenly confessed. He was still shocked his friends understood as much as they did, considering the situation still confused Jon and he was one half of the relationship.

"So how is she?"

Jon blinked as Grenn's question caught him off-guard, pulling him from his thoughts. "Who?"

Pyp rolled his eyes. "Who else? Your Sansa."

"She's not _my _Sansa. And she's fine. She seems to be enjoying herself."

"And you?" Sam asked, giving him a wry glance. "How are you dealing with her all the way in the Vale?"

"Yeah, it's still pretty rough on you having her so far away, isn't it?"

"And wasn't earlier the first time you've talked in months?"

"Guys." Jon appreciated the concern. He really did. But he was hungry, tired, and starting to feel cornered more than anything.

The others shared a look, and decided to change directions. "Is she still coming here first when winter break starts?" Sam asked breezily.

As expected, Jon's expression visibly brightened. "Yep. She's flying in on Friday."

"You've been giddy at the prospect for weeks," Pyp slyly commented.

Jon arched an eyebrow as they finally came to the restaurant. "Giddy?" he scoffed, holding the door open from the others.

"Alright, maybe not giddy. You brood too much to get giddy. But still," Pyp stopped in the doorway, dramatically placed a hand over his heart and rested the other one against Jon's shoulder, "In the name of friendship, our brotherhood-"

"I wouldn't claim you as family even if we were blood-related," Jon replied dryly. Sam watched with no small amount of amusement and Grenn ignored them all as he approached the hostess.

"Shut up. I'm trying to make a point here."

"Alright, alright."

"As I was saying, I'm personally glad to see you with a little happy in your life. I was honestly starting to think you weren't actually capable of smiling."

Jon only rolled his eyes in reply.

_Winterfell, 1999_

He remembers their first kiss.

It had snowed that day, heavily, the first real snow of the season, and Sansa had been in a tizzy of excitement. Jon would remember clearly just how bright her eyes were, how pretty her face with the excited animation of an anticipating smile.

He remembered the two of them being caught and scolded by Uncle Ned just before they ran out together through the front door, made to dress in coat and hats and gloves before going out into the snowfall. Sansa had been jittery, agitatedly impatient as she waited for him to finish the buttons on his coat, grabbing his hand and tugging him along behind her as they raced out the door.

The snow had covered the ground in a sea of pure, breathtaking white. He had watched Sansa dancing under the slow fall of fat snowflakes, her fiery hair whirling around her, and he was struck speechless by the sight. He had watched the glow of excitement she held, the enraptured expression, the pure joy softening her eyes, and he was awed.

She had tugged at his hand, pulling him with her into the strange, spinning dance. It had been a strange feeling, a feeling of freedom, a sensation of flying as he whirled around with his arms around her, elation filling him.

He did not remember who had lost their balance, but they were so tightly wrapped around one another that gravity took its toll, sent them both plummeting toward the ground. He had managed to cushion her fall, landing on his back with a distinct plopping sound, Sansa landing hard against his chest a second later.

Steadying her hands against his shoulders, she had leaned up, paused, and stared down at him with an unreadable expression. He remembers to this day the sudden tightening in his chest, the painful catch to his breath.

As she studied him, whether she was conscious of it or not, she had begun to lean forward, and suddenly all of his senses were overwhelmed, by large blue eyes, by the rosy blush painting her cheeks, by the warm breath mingling in the cold air between them.

She had come so close, her lashes brushed against his skin with a feather-light touch, a butterfly kiss, and then her lips had softly brushed against his, a real kiss.

The fragile moment was shattered a moment later, as a shout came from the house, Uncle Ned calling them in for lunch, and Sansa had sprang away from him, looking terrified, and raced back toward the house.

He remembered lying motionless in the snow, his mind racing, staring unseeing at the skies above and left wondering.

He had been thirteen, Sansa ten, and it was the end of their childhood friendship. They may have drifted apart after elementary, but they had been friendly then, and it was that day that ended any sort of familiarity between the. At least, until Sansa's teenage years, when tension had built between them and then exploded spectacularly.

He recognized all too well that they had fallen into old patterns of behavior, and to avoid repeating years of estrangement, something had to change.

He couldn't lose her again.


End file.
